Page 83 of The Long Way Home
I want to slam on the gas, drive to his place, and knock on his door until he answers—just so I can rearrange his face. Over and over, until the only thing he can see is his blood on my hands. And I’m not a violent person.
He’s lucky, really, that I can’t. Rachel is more important to me than revenge. She needs me to be with her right now, and that’s the only thing that matters right now.I’m going to give her that.
She leans against the window, head tilted as the world slides past in a blur of dark and light. Her hands fidget in her lap, fingers tugging softly at the edge of her sleeve. I can’t tell if she’s cold or if it’s just the only thing keeping her from coming undone.
She looks so small like this, folded inward, and it guts me. Someone like her, someone who shines even when she doesn’t mean to, should never have learned to shrink.
I loosen my grip on the wheel, flexing my fingers just to keep from reaching across the space between us. God knows I want to. But I settle for the wheel, for what I can control, because my chest is heavy with all the things I want to tell her and all the things I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice frayed from tears and alcohol. “I should’ve called you. You shouldn’t have had to come find me.”
My jaw locks. She is still blaming herself. Still carrying the weight that was never hers. I keep my eyes pinned to the road, forcing down the urge to pull over and make her listen.
“I’m sorry I ruined your night, Rhett.”
“You could never ruin my night, Sunny,” I respond instead. “You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
She exhales softly, turning back toward the glass. I let myself look again. God, she’s beautiful, even now.
Her eyes are swollen from crying, her hair is tangled from the wind. Her lips tremble with every uneven breath she takes. And somehow, all I can think about is how badly I want to touch her. To trace the curve of her cheek with my hand.
Her jeans cling like a second skin, outlining every line, every curve I’ve tried too hard not to notice. The fabric pulls tight at her thighs, softens at her hips, tapers into the delicate line of her waist beneath that fitted top. It’s maddening. Each breath shifts the neckline just enough to reveal more of her collarbone, the skin there pale and smooth where her hair keeps sliding down to brush against it.
I want to rest my hand on her hip, to feel the warmth of her body beneath my palm. I want to let my fingers graze her neck and watch her shiver like she did that night we almost—
No. I cut the thought off fast, gritting my teeth. What the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t the time. Not when she is hurting.
But even as I force the thoughts down, the ache doesn’t leave. A quiet, relentless part that has never stopped aching for her. And right now, all that part of me wants is to pull the car over, gather her against me, and remind her what it feels like to be chosen. I see her. I want to protect her and spend all of my days noticing her.
My grip on the wheel tightens again, muscles straining with the effort it takes to hold myself back.
I keep my voice low. “We’re almost to my house. Then we can get you out of those wet clothes and something to eat, okay?”
I want to take it all from her: every weight, every ache, every doubt he’s piled on her and hand her back her light.
When we pull up at my place, I kill the engine. Before she can move, I’m already out and around to her side. I open her door and hold out my hand. She hesitates, eyes flicking from my face to my palm.
“You sure this is okay?” she asks, voice thin.
“Rach,” I say, softly. I tuck a loose hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her jaw. I stay there a beat longer than I probably should, then let my hand fall. “You’re always okay with me.”
Inside, I grab a hoodie from my closet and toss it to her. She pulls it on without thinking; the sleeves swallow her hands, and the hem drops past her hips. It’s mine, and somehow it fits her better than anything she owns. The sight twists something tight inside me.
I step back and pull out a clean pair of boxers and a pair of sweatpants, holding them out wordlessly so she can choose. She takes the boxers out of my hand and disappears into the bathroom.
When she comes back, she’s barefoot. The waistband of the boxers hangs low on her hips. The hoodie’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing just enough skin to make my mouth dry. She is gorgeous and wearing my clothes, and it does something to meI’m not proud of. The kind of thoughts I shouldn’t be having float into my head anyway.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the bed.
She walks over without a word and sinks onto the edge of the mattress. I pull a clean pair of socks from the drawer and crouch in front of her.
“Foot,” I murmur.
She lifts one foot and sets it on my knee, her skin brushing mine in a warm glide that short-circuits something deep in my chest. I slide the sock over her toes, slow and careful, pretending this is nothing, pretending I’m not memorizing the delicate curve of her ankle, the way her calf tightens just slightly when she shifts.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how far my hand could travel if I let it. I shouldn’t be imagining the sound she’d make if I touched her like I want to.
But my mind betrays me anyway.
